Second Window

Thank god the dining room is still open.

I set my briefcase on a small red and yellow table and walk through the tangle of poles and ropes to get to the counter. The cashier comes over from the drive-thru window and takes my order, occasionally turning toward the kitchen to shout. She can't be more than sixteen, but her motions are practiced and sure. One day she'll be good at typing, or knitting, or something tragic like that. It's Valentine's Day and she's working the register, after all. No way she's got anything lined up.

I take my receipt and sit down by my briefcase. I don't even want to think of how long I'll have to exercise to work this off -- maybe I'll skip lunches next week. If I'm gonna hit the clubs next weekend I can't afford to get sloppy. Club guys can be pretty unforgiving, and the days of having someone to kiss my love handles are gone for good.

That's when I notice them.

A girl stands beside him loading bags of goo into the soda machines, and I can hear her animated tone, but not her words. He's laughing at whatever she's saying and stacking the cups by size, stopping to juggle a few before putting them in the right place. Their red cotton shirts stand out bright against the white of the wall beside them, and for a moment I can't help but think of them as animated bloodstains. Not that it's their fault, of course. I've done my time in minimum-wage uniform jobs and I still have nightmares about it, even though those days are long over. No more lonely TV dinners in a tiny studio for me.

He's turning to go back into the kitchen when he sees me looking.

He bids the girl goodbye and comes over, his gait confident and full of pep. I'm very surprised when he's close enough for me to see his face and he's at least thirty. The way he moves and tosses cups made me sure he was a teenager, because who else is that happy to be loading fast food cups?

It's tragic, really.

"Did you need something else?" He's as chipper as a sparrow at noon, and his red cap is tilted at an angle on his head. It must be exhausting, walking around like this all the time, faking cheer for assholes asking for ketchup.

I remember when I was chipper.

"I didn't realize you had chicken fries here." Not my best line, but you can't win them all. "I thought those were Burger King's thing."

"Yeah, we do!" he says excitedly, pointing to a nearby cardboard cutout. The chicken fries are dancing out of the box, bless their hearts. "But we call them chicken sticks for legal purposes."

He laughs at his own joke, which usually annoys me, but on him I like it. He's grinning even though there's a tooth missing in the front of his mouth -- it's like he doesn't even care. I'm a little offended by this act. Look how happy I am! I'm such a carefree fucking guy! I will now assault your eyes with my gapped teeth!

He's not very handsome, at least not strikingly so. Average face, big nose, waxy skin. His hair is a mousy and unremarkable brown, but his eyes are hazel, so that's something. The uniform isn't doing much for him, but arms are strong-looking and wiry and he's about five-foot-ten. I figure his happy ass will do for a Tuesday night.

"You closing tonight?"

I load as much innuendo into those words as I can, which granted, isn't much. But it seems to be enough for him, because he looks pretty fucking shocked.

"Uh..." He actually shakes his head to clear his thoughts, but I don't mind. I can have this effect on people. "Yeah, I guess I am. Sheila closed last night, so..."

I cast a glance at the girl he was with, who's back in the room, loading more goo. She doesn't look like much of a Sheila, but maybe she had when she was a baby.

"Hmm," I say, disinterested. "Need a ride home?"

He thinks about it, for some reason glancing back at the kitchen. I smirk, opening my briefcase and pulling out a pen. I write my number on a napkin.

"I live nearby," I tell him. They're calling my number so I stand to leave. "Call if you want that ride. Expires at 3 am."

I'm at the counter and grabbing the bag before he has time to respond. I don't bother to wave before the doors close behind me.

*****

He calls, of course.

It's 3:17, but I'll let that slide. "You ready?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think so."

"Ten minutes. Be ready."

I pull up after five, sitting silently in the parking lot. He locks up and jogs to my car, his steps as sure as they were the first time he came over to me. The steps of someone who doesn't think life can fuck them over. I imagine his mom dying in a plane crash, or his cat getting hit by a car. Wonder what would happen to his walk then?

He drops into my passenger seat and the door slams with a muffled whump. He's grinning and looking around.

"Nice!"

I don't reply.

It ruins the effect, I've found.

"So where do you live?"

"Uh, just that way." He points. "Head up Fall Creek Road."

I do, and start to speak, but he beats me to it.

"You said you live close, but I haven't seen you before. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember."

"I don't go inside fast food places a lot."

He looks around again. "Yeah, I can believe that."

He's not as nervous as I would have expected. I mean, he looks appropriately impressed, but that's it. Usually, the regular guys I pick up can't keep their hands off the dash and the controls, but here he is, cool as a cucumber and bubbly as ever.

"I'm Taylor," he says, again, before I can get any more words out.

"Hi, Taylor." I smile with the corner of my mouth that he can see. "It's very nice to meet you."

My hand creeps it way over to his knee as we pull up to a red light. I trace a circle around his kneecap and meet his eyes for reassurance.

His mouth is hanging open a bit and his breathing is heavier than it needs to be.

He doesn't move my hand, so I do, further up his thigh. He parts them for me, just a little, and I drag a finger across the crotch of his jeans. He just sighs contentedly, resting his head against the back of his seat. I squeeze him a bit and ten go back to gentle fingering. He gets hard slowly under my hand.

The light's been green for a while, but there's nobody behind us, so there's no rush to go. I'm stiffening up just from touching him, but I've always been a tease, so when the first jerk of his hips thrills me and I almost reach down into my own lap, but I don't.

I pull my hand back and grip the wheel, pressing forward. He lets out a barely audible groan, running a hand through his hair. His cap has fallen off and is pressed between his neck and the seat.

"Where to?" I keep my voice even.

He points again, still trying to catch his breath. I smirk, even though he's closed his eyes and can't see me. I like to tease, to feel a hard cock under my palm, but his excitement pleases me for other reasons, too. Not so bubbly and sure now, is he?

I turn off Binford and onto a small side street, then through a gate that doesn't look like it closes. Chateau in the Woods is written in calligraphy script on a small sign, though to call a single line of trees "woods" is pushing it. There are condos or townhouses or something up ahead, and Taylor tells me which one is his.

I put the car in park and Taylor grabs my hand and puts it back against his cock, humping my hand. This pisses me off, but I have no idea why -- I was just about to reach for him any fucking way. I push the feeling away and play with him some more, tugging his zipper down and tickling him through his underwear.

He's moaning constantly now, and I can tell he's trying not to hump my hand.

"Been a while, huh?" I put some bass in my voice.

He sighs and nods vigorously. "With a guy, yeah." He's turned on, excited by me touching him, but he's still got a hint of a smile on his face, a smile that doesn't think bad things can happen. I know how dangerous that smile is.

I used to see it in the mirror.

I stop abruptly, and squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to remember. It never does any good.

My cock jumps at the sound he makes when I stop playing with him.

"Let's go inside."

I lock the doors before he's even out of the car; his will lock when it closes. I throw an arm around his neck and drag him up the short stairway, his pants still undone. He fumbles the door open and we tumble inside, and he heads to the bedroom without even bothering to lock the door. I do it for him, very satisfied with myself.

It's a pretty small place, as I expected. There's a small night light behind the sofa, and it casts strange shadows around the room and makes it look orange. There are built-in bookshelves and knickknacks and lots of things that look like they've been knitted. Perhaps he has a girlfriend. Or a mother.

"You coming?"

He's calling from down the hall, and I toss my suit jacket on the couch and kick my shoes off. Let his girlfriend/mother see that.

He's already naked on the bed, and I can tell he's been touching himself, though he's not anymore. Even as my cock swells further, it irritates me. He should be more nervous, unsure about me coming over, seeing his place, tiny and pathetic as it is. He's not nearly as hot as I am, and he's a bit too comfortable there, naked, pudgy and smelling of fry grease and strawberry shampoo. He isn't even on his side or crossing his arms in front of his belly -- he's just lying there, legs splayed and cock dripping onto his pubes. My own cock is throbbing at this point, and I'm already walking toward him, but I consider leaving. I actually consider walking out the door and leaving him here to drip to his heart's content in his stupid, cheap orange apartment.

I don't, though.

Instead, I strip for him.

I usually go slow, give them a chance to appreciate it all, but this guy doesn't deserve that. I tear my shirt open and yank the tie over my head. My pants are gone soon after and then I'm right in bed with him, kneeing his legs apart. My mouth is on his neck and his collarbone and then his nipple, and his hands are in my hair, pulling and tugging and moaning. His cock is dragging against my chest as I move down his body and he's dripping like crazy.

He's writhing unabashedly under me, and he's so free and easy and I hate it. I give his cock a long lick from base to tip and he screams, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and I moan when he pulls.

Oh, shit.

I can feel it coming -- myself, I mean. That fucking fluttering has started and I can tell that a few strokes against the sheet will be all it takes. If possible, I'm even angrier at him now. There's a reason I like them to let me take the lead -- shit like this doesn't happen.

I yank his hand out of my hair and move away from him, sitting on the side of the bed with my feet on the floor. See him like this, it's -- I'm losing control, and I need to get some back.

"My turn," I say.

It takes him a second to pick up on it, but when he realizes what I want, he chuckles and slides off the bed onto the floor. I want to say something smart, something cheeky and perfect, but I'm down his throat before I get the chance.

He said it's been a long time, but you'd never know it from the way he sucks cock. I'd been expecting some hesitation, tentative licks, or something, but there's none of that. He can't fit me all the way into his mouth, but I don't have time to feel smug about it, because he's got half of me in there, his mouth stretched wide around me. His fist is clamped around the base of my cock, squeezing as tight as he can. There's so much pressure, it almost hurts.

His tongue is playing with the underside of my head and I growl, even though I'm trying not to make a sound. I don't want this guy thinking that I'm some kind of desperate whore, even though that's exactly how I feel. I look down at him, trying to keep a neutral look on my face, but I must fail miserably, because I can see the triumph in narrow little hazel eyes.

The pressure suddenly lets up and his hand is playing with my balls now. I just went and got waxed yesterday and I'm pretty sensitive, and he's not exactly being gentle. He's not sucking anymore, just kind of lazily letting my dick rest in his mouth. Every time his fingers drag across my nuts there's a feeling a little like rug burn, and it hurts but I like it.

I like it, and now he knows.

I moan and open my legs wider. I can't help it. My hands, which had been damn near tearing holes in his Target comforter, take up residence in his hair. It as greasy and slippery as it looked in the restaurant, but I tug on it from the roots anyway, and now he can see how it feels, the smug little prick. He's still down there, barely sucking, stroking my nuts. He must see the skin down there, red and irritated, but I guess he doesn't give a fuck.

He doesn't give a fuck if it hurts.

Sweat is rolling down my chest and I'm moaning almost constantly now. I'm trying to keep still, trying to keep a bit of composure, but I can't, and I start fucking his face. My ass is on the edge of the bed now and my legs are spread as wide as they'll go and I can barely swallow one cry before another comes up.

He pops me out of his mouth and laughs, the fucker actually laughs, still yanking on my balls like they're a goddamn train horn. His tongue passes over the skin at the base of my cock, bare and sensitive, and I tear at his hair. He just laughs more, and the sound of it infuriates me, but I can't stop humping at his face long enough to punch him.

That's when his finger slips inside me.

Not far, just enough to let me know it was there, but it's too much. He angles my cock at his face, still grinning, and gives me a stroke, another one.

I lose it.

My vision goes white around the edges, but I can still see him. Come is squirting out of me and onto his lips, nose, chin. He's grinning and laughing, but the muffled sound barely reaches me as I lose my breath and let go completely.

*****

It's only when I start to get cold that I come back to myself. He still on his knees, hands in his lap, not even touching his own cock. A cold panic settles in my midsection as I try to think of what to do. I'm never the one who comes first -- I make sure of it.

Every time.

"Been a while, huh?"

He's licking my come of his lips and drumming against his thigh with his fingertips. His eyes are trained on me, and in the gentle glow of the orange night light (how many of those fucking things are in this place?) he's looks devilish, in the worst possible way. The kind of way that suggests he sees me and doesn't plan to look away.

"No."

He leans forward and put his elbows on my thighs, tracing his finger through a little stray come. Heat rushes to my face. He's the one with my come on his face but I'membarrassed.

Incredible.

"I don't know..." He's doing that sing-song shit that I hate. "I don't think you come like that all the time."

My cock is still limp, but inside I'm stirring, and that's it. I'll be damned if I let him...do this to me twice.

I stand up suddenly, which surprises him. He tumbles back onto his butt and I'm picking up my clothes from the floor, hoping to make a quick getaway. I'm not usually the type to come and run, but he's dangerous for me, I can tell. I can still feel the tug of his hands in my hair, drag of his fingers between my legs, and I'm so hungry for that touch again that I have to leave.

I have to get out of here.

"Figures."

He's standing there in front of me, cock jutting obscenely from his body. He posture is casual, like I didn't just fuck his face and drown him. His plain face is unsurprised and bored, and I can feel the anger rising in me again. Who the fuck does he think he is, looking at me like that?

"What figures?"

"That you'd bail when you started to like it too much. Assholes like you are so predictable."

What?

"Assholes like me don't usually bother with guys who can't afford a ten-dollar Uber ride, but I made an exception," I spit. It's mean, but he started it. "Won't happen again."

"Of course it will." He chuckles. I hate how calm he is. Why is he so calm when I'm so riled up? "Who else is gonna be impressed by that overloaded Acura? Matt Bomer?"

I don't like the feeling that coming over me. It's ugly, and never leads anywhere good. "I wouldn't expect you to understand hard work or appreciate nice things." I gesture around with a haughtiness I no longer feel. "I mean, look at this place."

He actually looks around.

"It's not much, I'll grant, but it's mine. I actually like and enjoy it. I like working in fast food, too."

I believe him, but I don't want to. I hate where this convo is going, but I can't seem to stop myself. "Yeah, right. You're really saving the world there, Taylor. One registered trademark violation at a time."

He laughs, and it's actually genuine. How can he laugh for real right now? Does he not realize that we are fighting and that I am insulting him?

He sighs sadly, and looks at me through lidded eyes. "I didn't realize that what you did was so important, dude. Let me guess -- Sales Force? No, wait! Angie's List. You definitely seem like you're on the sales team at Angie's List."

"Fuck you."

"And you live in one of those condo places, right? Axis, or maybe Artistry? Circa?"

I swallow hard. "Shut the fuck up."

He jumps onto the bed and lays back, folding his arms under his head.

"You've read some book about 'seduction,' too. I can tell. The thing with the napkin, 'expires at 3 am.' Not telling me your name. Who were you supposed to be tonight, man? International Man of Mystery? The Most Interesting Man In The World? Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist?"

I'm struggling not to cry. "I'm not a thirty-year-old cup-stacker. That's for sure."

"Right." He turns back the covers and maneuvers into them, waving me off. "Well, bye."

Bye?

Bye?

"That it?" I drop my clothes, walking around to the side of the bed he's facing. "Just gonna kick me out because I don't work at discount Burger King?"

He smirks and closes his eyes. "You're the one who wanted to leave. Guess us cup-stackers have to get ourselves off."

I'm trembling. With what, I can't say. "Fine. Let's do it."

He opens one eye. "What?"

"Well, you seem to think you know me, and that just cause I have a nice job and car and a better life than you that this makes me some kind of asshole and I should apologize for not living in a dump like this anymore and not counting every dime and feeling sorry for myself and eating hot dogs alone all the time and never plan for the future or what might happen." I take a deep breath and I pray he can't see too well in the tacky orange light. "Because things can happen, Taylor. Bad things can happen, even when you're happy, if you don't plan for them. But you don't care. So I guess the least I can do is not blueball you and ruin your fucking happiness and joy."

I yank back the covers and get in with him. Blood is rushing in my ears and I'm vibrating with rage and grief and fear and arousal and fifty other things.

I don't know.

He's staring at me with this pitying expression and I just want to smack it off his face. He reaches up and touches my arm gently before he kisses me, pulling me into his arms.

"You don't have to do that." I can feel him rock hard between us, and it's making me stiffen up again. "If you don't want to stay, then go."

He kisses me on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

I kiss him passionately before the tears have time to reach my eyes, and I'm relieved when he kisses back. I'm scared to do this and I want to hide, to make him look away from me while this happens, but I'm tired of that, too. I'm tired of acting all the time. I just want to enjoy something again.